


This World You Must've Crossed

by WelpThisIsHappening



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Hospitalization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 13:37:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12482856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: It makes sense. Really. Emma's made sure of it. So, it's kind of weird, this agreement she's just stumbled into. But it's a rent-free apartment, with two bedrooms and a really good Thai place next door. And, so, ok, she's not supposed to go into one of the bedrooms, but that's fine.It is.Until books start falling on the floor and she's maybe, sort of...seeing things.





	1. Chapter 1

It starts exactly the way she expects it to – with an argument.

There are cries and exclamations and Emma’s pretty certain Ruby actually stamps her foot at one point, but she tries to ignore that, also pretty certain that if she starts laughing, all of her friends are just going to dissolve into complete meltdown mode.

“I don’t know why you guys are freaking out,” she says, crossing her arms lightly and Ruby absolutely stomps her foot at that, far too acquainted with the patented Emma Swan battle pose. “It’s just an apartment.”  
  
“It’s not an apartment,” Mary Margaret argues for the fourteenth time. She looks close to tears. Emma should have expected that too.

She hadn’t.

And, truthfully, that was kind of throwing her off.

“It is,” Emma promises. “It’s an apartment and a gig. Kind of.”  
  
“This is not opening for the Foo Fighters at the Garden, Em,” Ruby mutters, narrowing her eyes and sinking onto the arm of the couch. She ignores Elsa’s not-so-quiet huff of indignation at that, mumbling something about _hurting the furniture_ under her breath, just keeps staring at Emma with that same glare and frustration rolling off her in almost visible waves.

Emma quirks an eyebrow, tugging at the blanket she’d draped around her shoulders just a few minutes before even tighter. “That was an oddly specific reference.”  
  
“Would we call that a reference?” Elsa asks, still in scrubs and there are bags under her eyes and for half a moment Emma feels bad that she’s just kind of dumped this decision on her friend’s doorstep.

Metaphorically.

Or whatever.

“Eh,” Mary Margaret mutters. She’s already moved into the kitchen and she’s probably baking something or making hot chocolate and Emma is the worst because she kind of wants both. “It’s more like a heavy-handed point, right? Also, why the Foo Fighters? That just seems…”  
  
“Ok, ok,” Ruby interrupts, jumping back off the couch and shaking the few frames hanging on the far wall in the living room. Elsa almost looks passably amused. Emma just wants to sink into the corner of the couch – for several days.

Until she has to leave the corner of the couch. Because she signed paperwork that afternoon and agreed to terms and conditions and maybe she should hired a lawyer.

She couldn’t afford a lawyer.

That was kind of the point of this whole conversation.

And that guy she met with looked fairly legitimate. He wore a suit. He had a card. He _was_ a lawyer.

“It’s already done,” Emma sighs, twisting the ends of her hair around her fingers and ignoring the wide-eyed stare of all three of her friends.

Ruby stomps her foot again. “When?”

“This afternoon. After I grabbed that skip.”  
  
“You’re an incredible multi-tasker.”  
  
“I mean I wasn’t doing it at the same time,” Emma reasons and she’s willing to risk a cautious smile when Ruby doesn’t knock over anymore frames. “It was just the only time he was available and I think he’s kind of important.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“His name is Scarlet. Will Scarlet. Wore a suit. Looked like it was expensive.”  
  
“The suit or like...this guy?”  
  
Emma rolls her eye, somehow finding another few inches of couch to slump into. “The suit,” she mumbles. “Although, I guess the guy too. I mean he basically offered to let me stay there rent-free as long as I watched the plants or something.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’re a crappy interviewer you know that?”

Ruby shrugs, sticking her tongue out slightly and Elsa sighs with all the drama of someone who just got off a twenty-hour double and is probably running on a few minutes of sleep that’s really more just elongated blinking. Mary Margaret is absolutely baking. “Ok, ok, wait,” Elsa says, waving her hands through the air before resting her right one on Ruby’s shoulder when she starts jumping again. “You don’t have to actually do anything? I figured there’d at least be a cat involved.”  
  
Emma shakes her head, but it’s a fair question and maybe one she’s been trying to ignore since she walked away from Will Scarlet and his very fancy suit that afternoon.

She’d seen the ad six days ago – sitting in her bug in some deserted alley because whoever she was supposed to be picking up that night was absolutely not there and not coming there and she’d blinked when she saw it.

**_House-Sitter Needed: 667 Congress Street_ **

**_Looking for professional for six-month arrangement, at maximum, in two-bedroom apartment. Rent covered, utilities covered, non-smoker, no pets, must provide three references. Employee will stay in guest room. Interested applicants should contact Will Scarlet, (207) 718-1219._ **

Emma called the next morning, blinking again when she was met with a bright voice and a very distinct type of pep that she wasn’t entirely prepared for after spending another night on Ruby and Elsa’s couch.

The woman claimed her name was Ariel and she worked for _Locksley and Partners_ and _Mr. Scarlet is out now, but he should return your call as soon as possible._ As soon as possible, apparently, was forty-two minutes later and Emma suddenly found herself on the phone with a slightly out of breath Mr. Scarlet.

He sounded stressed out.

They agreed to meet for coffee and she brought her references and he brought an actual floorplan of the apartment and it was huge.

Well, huge compared to the couch Emma was calling home and huge compared to the foster homes she’d been used to as a kid and, well, as much as she was loathe to admit it, huge compared to the backseat of her bug.

And there hadn’t been very many details. There had been a frightening lack of details if she was being honest, but she absolutely wasn’t being that and she really just wanted to get off Ruby and Elsa’s couch and it wasn’t like she was paying rent there, but not paying rent in a two-bedroom on Congress Street – with a Thai restaurant basically next door – was some kind of living-situation miracle.

Emma was willing to forgo the questions.

So she signed the papers and agreed to six months, at maximum, and Mr. Scarlet explained the rules of the situation. Or, as he called them, the parameters.

She’d move in on Monday – _bring whatever personal belongings you want, but please don’t move anything that’s already there_ – and stay for as long as the contract was necessary. Those were his exact words.

 _This last as long as the contract is necessary because my client can’t be in town for the next six months. We just really need someone to make sure the apartment is still standing at the end of the day. There are..._ He waved his hands and there were bags under his eyes as well, but they were distinctly different than the ones Elsa normally sported.

No, Mr. Scarlet wasn’t just tired from working a double on the surgery floor. He was exhausted in a bone-deep type of way, the kind of tired that came from something particularly traumatic

Emma didn’t ask about that.

Free. Rent. She was swayed by free rent and thai food and that crick in her spine she was fairly positive she was never going to get rid of.

And now her three best friends in the entire world were furious at her for it.

“No cat,” Emma mutters, realizing rather belatedly that she hadn’t actually answered Elsa. “Just some plants and, I guess, stuff that can’t be moved on pain of death.”  
  
“And this guy didn’t mention why some perfect apartment in the middle of downtown was just suddenly available?”  
  
Emma shakes her head again, pushing her lips together tightly and doing her best to swallow down the host of questions she absolutely has. She hadn’t asked them, but they’re there. And this perfect apartment downtown should have been costing her nearly two grand a month.

Before utilities.

“This is weird,” Ruby announces, back on the couch and dangerously close to Emma’s toes. “You know that right? Like...the weirdest.”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma admits. “It is weird, but you know…”  
  
“No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”  
  
She’s going to run out of air to sigh. There will be a sudden lack of oxygen in the room and Emma won’t be able to huff out any noise and Mary Margaret will, maybe, sit down and not look like she’s positive this whole thing is going to end in grisly murder.

“Is it because of us?” Mary Margaret asks softly, walking back into the living room with a goddamn tray and mugs filled with what is, undoubtedly, hot chocolate. “Have we been too pushy?”  
  
The answer, of course, is yes.

They’ve all been beyond pushy – asking for years why Emma didn’t come to Portland and Boston was fine, but it wasn’t _home_ and they were all just a few hours up I-95 and she could catch skips in Maine as easily as she could in Massachusetts.

Emma ignored all of it.

She was fine.

She was good.

She was paying her own rent.

But she also kind of wanted and some dark, lonely corner of her mind was, well, lonely. So when the job opened up in Portland, Emma took it and spent the last three weeks camped out on Ruby and Elsa’s couch.

The problem with that, however, was that none of them worked the same hours.

Emma’s job existed when it had to – she was on call and still had a goddamn beeper and Ruby made fun of that endlessly when she wasn’t working in her grandmother’s diner a few blocks away. And Elsa was, well, Elsa and saving people and trying to sleep when _she_ wasn’t on call and Emma knew, if she didn’t get off that couch soon, they were all going to kill each other.

Mary Margaret really would have cried then.

“No,” Emma lies and Ruby scoffs under her breath. “It is not because of you. It is because if I’m going to make this work, I can’t live on the couch forever. That’s just...impractical.”  
  
“So moving into some guy’s apartment that you don’t know is so much better?” Ruby counters. “Do you even know the name of this guy?”

“It could be a girl,” Mary Margaret adds.

Emma flushes slightly, ducking her eyes and Ruby’s scoff turns into a sound that’s treading dangerously close to disbelief and even Elsa is shouting questions and concerns, pacing back and forth on the far side of the living room.

“Well, no,” she mutters, waving her hands when the wave of comments becomes almost too much to handle. “He just kept saying my client and my client’s decisions and something about his client’s plans. But. But! I looked up this Scarlet guy and he’s totally legit. Aside from the fancy suit. He’s a lawyer. An honest to God lawyer. I looked up his practice or firm or whatever. Locksley and Partners. It’s won awards.”  
  
“Can law firms win awards?” Mary Margaret asks. Ruby makes a dismissive noise in the back of her throat, but Elsa narrows her eyes again and that weird, vaguely opinionated voice in the back corner of Emma’s mind seems to start jumping around on her brain.

“What?’ she mutters warily, taking a sip of hot chocolate.

Elsa hums, but it’s not quite confusion and not quite an answer. “I don’t know,” she mumbles. “That name just sounds kind of familiar. Like I should know who that is or something.”  
  
“I mean you see a gazillion people every day and if they’re award-winning lawyers or whatever, they probably have commercials or something, right? You know with like a God awful or jingle that just gets stuck in your head all day.”  
  
“Yeah,” Elsa wavers, making another noise, but Emma can practically hear the gears working in her head. “Who did you ask for references?”

Emma nearly chokes on her hot chocolate. “Oh, uh, Regina, obviously, since she can you know, boast about my professionalism and how top-notch adult I am in Portland. And, uh, Graham so we get the Boston factor and...David.”  
  
It’s the loudest any of them have been all night and May Margaret drops her hot chocolate. Emma sighs again. “This is a good thing,” she promises, grabbing a towel off the kitchen counter and using her foot to try and clean up the hardwood floor. Ruby doesn’t look convinced. “It is. Honestly. I’ll have my own space for a while, the three of us will, probably, get some sleep and it gives me some time to save some money for my own place when my six months are up.”  
  
“At max,” Elsa corrects and Emma makes a face. “I’m just saying.”  
  
“And I’m just saying, it’s going to be fine. This makes sense.”  
  
“It makes no sense at all,” Ruby mutters, another towel in hand, but there’s the hint of a smile on her face. “But just think how fun it’ll be to take down Locksley and Partners, attorneys at law, if it actually does end up being the worst decision you’ve ever made.”

“That’s the spirit.”

She moves in on a Monday – as per Mr. Scarlet’s plan and he doesn’t look particularly surprised to see the whole lot of them carting the few boxes Emma managed to bring with her from Boston out of her bug, only whining slightly about unseasonably warm April weather.

“Ms. Swan,” he says, nodding when she walks towards him and the bags under his eyes are even deeper now.

“Emma is fine,” she promises. She’s forgotten there’s a slice of pizza in her hand. Jeez. Scarlet smiles slightly and it’s like twenty years have fallen off his face, the hint of something Emma can’t quite recognize there, but it looks a little bit like disappointment and that same exhaustion she’d practically been able to smell on him the week before.

“Emma,” Scarlet repeats, still smiling and his tie isn’t quite so much a tie anymore as a loosely knotted thing around his neck, like he’s been tugging on it all day. “I appreciate you moving in today. My client he...uh….”  
  
“Does your client have a name, Mr. Scarlet?”  
  
The smile widens just a bit and his eyebrows shoot up his forehead, as if he’s not entirely used to anyone calling him that. He tugs self consciously on his tie again, digging the toe of his shoe into the sidewalk and Emma tries to ignore the grease she can feel seeping into her fingertips.

“Will is fine,” he mutters, licking his lips quickly when he realizes it’s not the answer Emma’s looking for. “And, yeah, uh...Liam.”  
  
“Liam?”  
  
“I’m afraid those are part of those rules, I mentioned, Emma.”  
  
“I can’t know who I’m working for?”  
  
“You’re working for me.”  
  
“Those are fairly thin semantics and you know it.”  
  
Scarlet nods in agreement, lower lip jutted out slightly and Emma’s pizza is going to be frozen before she eats any of it. “Probably wouldn’t hold up in court,” he laughs softly. “But, well, we’re treading on slightly personal ice here.”  
  
“Personal?” Emma repeats, dimly aware of David’s shadow behind her and she tries to wave him off without being too obvious. It doesn’t work.

“Yeah, decidedly. Uh...basically what I can tell you is that my client’s brother is indisposed. And, well, we can’t just leave the apartment empty.”

“And the brother couldn’t watch it?”  
  
Scarlet shakes his head quickly, tugging his lips back behind his teeth and David is still lurking in literal and metaphorical shadows. Emma’s mind, meanwhile, is working overdrive, every single one of her senses firing on overdrive, including that sixth-sense she just so happens to have and Scarlet isn’t lying.

Huh.

“No,” he says. “He needed to get back to Norfolk.”  
  
“Virginia?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“And you probably can’t tell me why, right?” Emma asks and Scarlet almost looks disappointed. Or maybe that’s just an even deeper level of exhaustion.

“I can’t,” he mutters. “There are…”  
  
“Rules, yeah, I got that.”

Scarlet flashes her another smile, but this one is tinged with just a bit of something that feels a hell of a lot like being placated, and he comes up with a quick excuse about leaving – cases and files and his receptionist – and they’re all lies.

Emma can tell.

It takes them most of the afternoon to move in, but that’s mostly because they spend most of the afternoon eating pizza and drinking shitty beer and Emma hasn’t actually opened more than two boxes by the time she all but pushes Mary Margaret out the door, promising she’ll _be fine_ and she’ll _call if there are any issues._

“There aren’t going to be any issues,” Emma mumbles to herself as soon as the door closes behind her and that’s not exactly comforting because she’s been alone for all of two seconds before she starts talking to herself.

She might be drunk.

She kind of hopes she’s drunk.

If she’s drunk, then there’s some sort of excuse for going through the stuff in this apartment. Her apartment? Not really.

Emma chews lightly on her lip, considering her options and she’s not really tired – far too full of adrenaline after a day of friends and a questionable amount of pizza and the less-than-truth tendencies of Will Scarlet, esquire. Plus, she reasons, she’s going to be staying in this place for the foreseeable future.

She should at least know what it looks like.

It takes less time to decide that than it did to start talking to herself.

Emma weaves her way through the space, fingers trailing lightly over bookcase shelves and frames and there are a lot of both, but also _not_ a lot of both. It feels like a lot for her, someone who’s never owned a bookcase in her life, but for someone with, what appears to be, a very overprotective brother, it doesn’t seem like much.

There isn’t a blanket on the couch and the coffee table actually has one of those remote holder things, like whoever lives in this apartment can’t quite cope with the idea of anything out of place.

The kitchen is almost too bright – and Emma gets the distinct impression Scarlet must have hired someone to clean because there’s not an ounce of dust anywhere – empty cupboards that she’ll probably have to fill at some point, but there are pots and pans in one and the oven looks like something she can contend with.

There’s an ice maker in the refrigerator.

“Fancy,” Emma mumbles, continuing her quasi-quest through the apartment and into the bedroom and it’s not quite as stark there. There’s a blanket at the edge of the bed and a few frames on the wall, a closet full of crisp, white shirts and ties on actual hangers and Emma clicks her tongue when she brushes her fingertips across the fabric.

It’s softer than she expected.

She makes a noise in the back of her throat, resisting the urge to start talking to herself again, and there are more books on the nightstand. She takes a cautious step forward, not sure why she suddenly feels like she’s intruding on something, but there’s this weird pull in the pit of her stomach and every inch of her skin feels like it’s buzzing.

It’s like she can feel someone behind her or above her or maybe next to her, but there’s nothing when Emma jerks her head around and she must get, at least, five feet on her terror-filled leap when one of the books crashes onto the ground.

She bends down slowly, lip tight between her teeth and she’s not convinced she’s even breathing when she grabs the book, eyes going wide when she realizes there’s an inscription on the inside.

 _Little brother,_  
_Twenty bucks if you can translate it by Christmas. Don’t rip out the pages, this was expensive. Happy birthday.  
_ _\- Liam_  

Emma’s hands are still trembling slightly when she sinks back onto the floor, legs sprawled haphazardly at her side and she’s going to bite her goddamn lip in half if she doesn’t stop tugging on it. She flips the book over, careful not to bend any of the pages and she feels her eyebrows tug at the title.

She can’t read it, but she recognizes a few words and she almost remembers learning about Persephone in middle school. Or maybe elementary school? She dimly remembers something about spring and maybe pomegranates? It doesn’t matter.

Emma puts the book back on table, wiping her suddenly clammy hands on the front of her jeans and resolving not to go in rooms that, technically, aren’t hers again.

It takes just about a full week before her curiosity gets the better of her.

She’s just caught her latest skip – a real piece of work who was willing to walk, _run,_  away from his family if he didn’t have to face a trial – and her head is pounding and there’s a bruise on her right arm from where the guy grabbed her.

The thought’s been tugging at the back of her mind since the book incident and Emma huffs when she drops onto the couch, swinging her feet onto the coffee table and balancing her laptop on her knees.

It doesn’t take nearly as long as she thought it would.

She’s very good at her job.

And she has a hunch.

There is a Captain Liam Jones, currently, stationed on the USS Monterey in Norfolk, Virginia, the pride of, apparently, the entire goddamn United States Navy and the recipient of several awards that are, probably, more legitimate than whatever Emma found for Will Scarlet, esquire.

He graduated from Annapolis with honors or distinction or whatever and had been stationed in Norfolk for the last six years, after doing a tour in the Adriatic and winning more awards and, now, he’s some kind of public figure in Virginia who, per some blog post Emma found from a few months before, could probably run for president if he wanted to.

It’s that blog post that ends up changing everything.

There’s a picture – almost exactly the same as one hanging on the wall in the bedroom she’s not supposed to be in.

“Oh shit,” Emma mumbles and she really should have figured that out before. Maybe she’s not quite as good at her job as she assumed.

She nearly throws her laptop on the floor in her effort to move, sliding on socked feet into the room and her shoulders are heaving by the time she comes to a stop.

Captain Liam Jones is staring right back at her, dress whites almost blinding even in photo form and there’s sunlight reflecting off just a questionable amount of medals and the smile on his face is nearly as big as the one of the man next to him.

He’s attractive, _absurdly attractive_ her mind is quick to point out, with dark hair and blue eyes and pride practically radiating off him.

Emma twists her lip again, huffing when she realizes she can’t actually name the second guy, but he must be _the client_ and _little brother_ and she doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until it all rushes out of her as soon as something crashes in the kitchen.

“Hello?” Emma calls with far more confidence than she’s feeling. The book falls off the nightstand again. “Oh my God,” she sighs, still not entirely sure who she’s talking to. “Really?”

She’s not sure when her curiosity and terror evolve into something closer to just general frustration, but Emma suddenly finds herself stalking down the hallway, shoulders set in a straight line and determination settling into the pit of her stomach.

She realizes, half a second too late, that her gun is still in her room.

“Who the hell are you?,” she demands, rounding the corner of the counter and she’s not sure who startles more at the other, her or the dark-haired guy rooting through her cabinets and mumbling about junk food under his breath.

He stands up slowly, like he’s settling his weight between his feet and she recognizes the tie around his neck, the pattern similar to one hanging in the closet. In the end, it’s the eyes though.

His eyes aren’t quite as blue as the man in the photograph, dimmer, like he’s staring at her through a thin veil of mist or haze or something decidedly spookier than whatever it is that’s actually happening. They’re just similar enough though, the way his skin crinkles slightly at the corners when he keeps staring at her and he blinks twice when his gaze lands on her face.

Emma can feel her breath catch in her throat, mouth going dry when he quirks one eyebrow at her and crosses his arms over his chest. “I think,” he says slowly. “I could be asking you the same question, love.”

She bristles at the endearment, rolling her shoulders and she really should have gotten her gun. Although...she can tell he’s not lying and something feels off about him, the same way his eyes aren’t quite right.

It isn’t until he takes a step towards her that she notices. He’s kind of...translucent.

“What the fuck,” Emma breathes, stumbling backwards and there’s not enough oxygen in the entire world to actually fill up her lungs. “What kind of sick joke is this?”  
  
The man tilts his head slightly, like he’s examining her and Emma ignores the flush she can feel rising in her cheeks. “Why are you in my apartment?’ he asks and that’s the last question she expects.

“Excuse me?”

“My apartment. We’ve circled back around, love. See, I’m asking you the same question.”  
  
She’s gone insane.

That’s the only explanation.

And, honestly, it’s kind of disappointing. Emma was fairly certain she’d avoided all those mental miscues that seemed like a product of growing up in the system – unless you counted that weird, lonely voice in the corner of her mind, but she absolutely wasn’t counting that – and this feels like some sort of psychotic break, slash failure.

“This is my apartment,” Emma argues and the man’s lips quirk, like he’s trying not to smile at her. “Well...kind of.”  
  
“Kind of in that it’s absolutely not?”  
  
“Kind of in that I’m watching it for the next few months.”

That seems to catch him by surprise and he moves his head again, a piece of hair falling across his forehead as Emma tries, desperately, to take stock of the situation. She hasn’t had any alcohol. She’s gotten, almost, enough sleep in the last week. She’s fairly positive she hasn’t been drugged in the last twenty-four hours.

Maybe it’s a gas leak. Or carbon dioxide? Monoxide? Which one is poisonous? She can’t remember. She thinks there was an episode of ER about it, though.

“You look as if you’re trying to come with all the answers to the world’s great questions,” the man in front of her muses, leaning forward slightly and the light catches on the curve of his shoulder. Or, rather, passes through the curve of his shoulder.

“Who the hell are you?” Emma asks, voice picking up quickly and the man takes a step back.

He eyes her carefully, tapping his finger on his forearm and she feels some of her frustration ebb. She’s not sure why. “Killian Jones,” he says softly and it’s an actual miracle Emma stays upright.

“No, no, no,” she mumbles, shaking her head like that’ll make a difference. She’s already snapped. There’s no going back now.

The man – _Killian_ – just keeps staring at her. “No?” he asks. “That’s news to me.”  
  
“You’re incapacitated!”

“Excuse me?”  
  
“That’s what Scarlet told me. He said there were rules and schedules and brothers who couldn't be here and the only thing I could get out of him was that you were incapacitated. You’re not supposed to be here. How did you get here? Where did you come from?”  
  
Something flashes in his eyes, confusion or maybe just a bit of fear and Emma finds herself moving before she even considers what that will do to her mental state. Killian flinches. “I…” he murmurs, shaking his head slightly. “I’ve always been here.”  
  
“What?” Emma balks. “No you haven’t. I’ve been here for a week and...oh shit, was that you too?”  
  
“Was what me?”  
  
“The book thing! Was that some kind of ghost test?”  
  
Killian laughs, but there’s not much humor to it and Emma can’t quite suppress the shiver that runs down her spine. “I hope not, love,” he says. “Did you say Scarlet? And my brother?”

“Not your love,” Emma mutters and he laughs again, softer and warmer and she’s having an argument with a ghost. Maybe. No one actually said he was dead.

“I’ll take your name, though.”  
  
She glances up at the tone of his voice, the obvious curiosity there and it’s as surprising as it is terrifying and slightly comforting. “Emma,” she says. “Emma Swan.”  
  
“Swan,” Killian echoes, as if he’s testing out the name on his tongue and Emma finds she doesn’t mind that nearly as much. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, yeah. Scarlet, uh...Will whatever, he hired me last week to stay here and, well, watch the apartment and live in it and everything.” Killian doesn’t say anything, just lowers his eyebrows slightly until there’s a crinkle in between them as well. “I, well…” she continues. “I just moved her, kind of, and I needed a place to stay that wasn’t my friend’s couch and I don’t have to pay rent. So here I am.”  
  
It’s silent for a few moments, the only sound Emma’s socks squeaking slightly on the linoleum of the kitchen floor. “Here you are,” Killian says eventually.  “And Scarlet didn’t mention anything else?”  
  
“Should he have? Do you know Scarlet?”  
  
“What happened to your arm?”  
  
It’s another question she’s not entirely ready for and Emma glances down and the bruise has grown or just gotten even more purple and she winces when she realizes it actually hurts like hell. “Work,” she explains and Killian clicks his tongue. “I’m a...bail bondsperson.”  
  
“Person?”  
  
“You’re asking a lot of questions, you know. What are you, a reporter?”  
  
The silence that time is even worse. It’s like it’s actually fallen on top of them and is trying to suffocate both of them and everyone of her muscles suddenly feels far too heavy for her body. “I don’t…” Killian starts, but he cuts himself off when he follows her gaze, landing at the end of his left arm and the distinct lack of anything there.

She can’t quite see the muscles in his throat move when he swallows, isn’t sure that a ghost _would_ have muscles still, but she’s not entirely convinced all of this isn’t some kind of dream.

“Killian,” Emma whispers, taking another step towards him and he doesn’t move. “What...what happened to you?”  
  
He exhales and Emma can feel it, the slight shift in the air and it’s not quite cold, but it isn’t quite warm either and she has the sudden urge to do sixty-seven jumping jacks, like she’s just eaten too many candy bars and is riding some kind of impossible sugar high.

She doesn’t move.

She waits.

And she doesn’t get an answer.

“Swan,” Killian says and she barely even registers her own name before he’s gone.

She lasts all of fourteen hours before she calls Elsa. And really, maybe, she should have done more research, but finding out your not-quite-actual apartment might be haunted by the maybe-ghost of an absurdly good looking guy does a number on Emma’s ability to keep her eyes open the night before.

That metaphorical sugar rush hadn’t really lasted all that long.

She’s sitting in her bug now, the driver’s side window rolled down and it’s warm again, some kind of sign Emma isn’t sure she appreciates.

Elsa answers on the fourth ring.

“Hello?” she mumbles blearily and Emma hisses when she realizes she’s probably called at the worst possible time.

“Ah, damn,” Emma sighs. “Just...ok, ignore me. Go back to sleep. This is like...not even important at all.”

There’s a telltale mattress creak on the other end of the line and Emma scrunches her nose. “No, no, it’s fine,” Elsa promises, sleep still clinging to her voice. “Are you ok?”  
  
“I think I’m going insane.”

Elsa doesn’t say anything for a beat, likely narrowing her eyes at the wall and trying to find the lie in Emma’s voice. She sighs when she doesn’t. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I’m...seeing things. Are hallucinations a side effect of carbon stuff? The bad one, obviously.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“I’m seeing stuff. Things. Or, well, one thing. A guy.”  
  
“A guy?”  
  
“The guy who lived in my apartment. Or lives? What tense do you think you use for ghosts?”  
  
“Hold on, hold on, hold on,” Elsa says quickly and she’s absolutely waving her hands through the air, Emma’s sure. “The guy whose apartment you’re watching? I thought you didn’t know who it was.”  
  
“I don’t,” Emma admits. “Not technically. I asked the lawyer, but he said there were rules and something about a brother and Virginia and I think I found the brother. He’s a captain. In the Navy.”  
  
Elsa makes some kind of understanding noise that Emma appreciates since she’s not sure she understands anything that’s happened since she moved into that apartment. “Ok…” she says, drawing out the word until it sounds impossibly long. “And that’s not the guy now?”  
  
“No. It’s his brother. Younger. I think. Based on the inscription in his book.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The book. The one he knocked off the table when I moved in.”  
  
“Well, yeah, of course.”

Emma groans, sliding down the seat until her knee is practically in the steering wheel. “He told me his name is Killian Jones.”  
  
“The ghost?”  
  
“I don’t know that he’s dead.”  
  
“Yuh huh,” Elsa mutters and the bed creaks again when she moves. “Wait, what did you say?”  
  
“I don’t know that he’s dead?”  
  
“No, no, before that.”  
  
Emma purses her lips, glancing out the window when when a car alarm starts to blare and she’s probably going to lose her guy because she’s worried about some ghost. Although if she really is being haunted, that should probably take priority, right? Absolutely.

“Em,” Elsa snaps and Emma yelps when she slams her thigh into the steering wheel. “What did you say this guy’s name is?”  
  
“Oh, uh...Killian Jones. Why?” Elsa actually gasps, the phone presumably falling out of her hands when there’s a muffled sound on the other end and Emma can hear footsteps. She’s started pacing. “So that’s...important, then?”

“You’re absolutely sure that’s what his name is?”  
  
“I mean that’s what he told me. I’m not supposed to go through his stuff. Those were part of the rules. Why?”  
  
“Have you not looked at a newspaper in the last few weeks?”  
  
Emma shrugs, well aware no one can see her except those few pigeons sitting on the power lines across the street. “I mean, obviously not, journalism is a dying industry.”  
  
“Killian Jones,” Elsa says, in a tone that sounds frighteningly similar to Mary Margaret, “is one of the biggest lawyers in this city. I knew that name sounded familiar! The law firm he’s working for doesn’t have a jingle, but it’s super fancy and super profitable and he’s not dead, Em.”  
  
She stops breathing, she’s sure of it, hands gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles are white, if only to prove that she’s still part of the normal, regular Earth she’s been used to for the last three decades or so.

“I don’t understand,” Emma admits and Elsa sighs again, a note of disappointment and far-too-obvious concern in the sound.

“Killian Jones, super fancy lawyer, is currently, laying in a bed on the seventh floor with just...a questionable number of machines hooked up to him. He...he got hit, weeks ago. A car and a police investigation and there’s supposedly foul play or whatever the term is.”

Emma still can’t breathe. Or speak. And Elsa isn’t done. “Em,” she adds. “He’s been in a coma for the last week. Medically induced.”

She’s not sure how fast she drives to get home or how she manages to hit so many green lights, but Emma just assumes it part of whatever she’s dealing with now. She takes the stairs two at at time, panting by the time she swings open the front door.

“Killian,” she yells, barely pausing to close the door let alone acknowledge the fact that she’s screaming for a ghost. Maybe. “Killian! Shit, God, if you’re here I, well, I really need to talk to you!”

Emma spins on the spot, like that’ll somehow help her summon whatever term they’re using to describe whatever it might be that Killian is. There isn’t anything. There’s no ghost or falling books or even a flash of blue eyes that she absolutely hasn’t been thinking about all day.

She sighs, disappointment shooting all the way into her toes when she drops onto the couch, letting her feet rest on the edge of the coffee table.

She should have known.

“Get your feet off my table, Swan.”  
  
Emma jumps up, eyes wide and breath gone, again, and Killian is just a few feet away, that stupid half smile still on his face. “God, you scared me,” she breathes and he laughs lightly, the sound settling in the air between them. “Where...where were you?”  
  
The laughter seems to almost evaporate in front of her eyes. Killian rocks back on his heels, rubbing the end of his blunted arm almost self consciously. “That’s the million dollar question isn’t it?” he asks.

“Yeah, I think I know.” He doesn’t respond, just lifts his eyebrows and Emma grabs her laptop off the table, sitting back down and nodding to the seat next to her. “Can you...I don’t know how this works? You opened the cabinets, so...”

Killian scoffs, but he doesn’t actually argue, just takes a step forward and sinks down slowly. There’s an indent in the cushion, but it’s only just there, like he’s only just there and Emma tries not to ask the, approximately, forty-two thousand questions she’s come up with on her race home.

And that’s the second time she’s called it that.

“What do you think you know, Swan?” he mutters, eyes intent on her laptop.

“I uh...well, I thought I was going crazy honestly,” Emma says, fingers moving across her keyboard, and she’s fairly certain she sees his lips move. “So I called one of my friends and she’s a surgeon and she knows you. Or knows of you.”  
  
“My reputation proceeds me, huh?”

“Not for the law thing,” Emma continues and Killian arches an eyebrow at that. “Yeah, I know about that too. You can go ahead and admit you’re impressed.”  
  
“I am, love,” he says softly, the honesty in his voice making Emma’s sixth sense as silent as it’s ever been. She doesn’t correct him on the endearment.

Emma nods quickly, trying to wade through feelings and whatever her face keeps doing when he glances her direction. She clicks on a few links and groans when she hits a newspaper paywall, mumbling something about dying industry under her breath. It, at least, gets Killian to laugh again.

“What...what do you remember about the last few weeks?” Emma asks cautiously.

Killian reaches up to move his fingers behind his ear, tugging lightly on the hair that curls slightly there. He takes a deep breath before he starts talking. “I was...driving. I think? It was dark and late and raining? Was it raining?”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma nods, tapping on her laptop for emphasis. “At least that’s what the stories say.”  
  
“Stories?”  
  
“Also yeah. Um...according to the vaunted _Portland Press-Herald_ you were riding a motorcycle on Baxter?”  
  
“That’s Back Cove,” Killian explains. “There’s...well, we liked to go over there. It’s quiet.”  
  
“We?”

“My….” He blinks a few times and Emma’s not sure if a not-quite-ghost can cry, but it looks like he’s just on the edge of it, eyes even duller than usual when his shoulders heave. “Milah,” he finishes. “But I wasn’t with her. Right?”  
  
“Girlfriend?”  
  
He hums, licking his lips and his eyes keep darting back towards the story. “Kind of. It’s, uh...complicated.”

“Yeah, well, you’re here, so we started with complicated. What else do you remember?”

“Not much,” he says. “I was driving and the roads were a mess, but that wasn’t...I didn’t skid out. There was a car?”  
  
“Maybe. It’s called a hit and run in the story, but that seems too simple. Elsa told me that there’s a police investigation and that kind of adds up with Scarlet and the rules and why I’m here, but in the dark.”  
  
“You’re not making any sense, love,” Killian grumbles and she can’t really fault him his frustration.

“Where do you go when you’re not here?” Emma asks instead. That probably doesn’t help.

Killian freezes for a moment, blinking once and then again and his lips part slightly. He doesn’t actually say anything for what feels like an eternity. “It’s not...quite sleeping, is it?” Emma shakes her head, disappointment returning in waves. “It’s kind of in between. Like I just...stop.”  
  
“Stop?”  
  
“It’s as if the world just kind of...stops.” He sighs softly, fingers back in his hair and eyes on the wrong side of desperate. Emma doesn’t blink. “I can feel you leaving, you know. There’s this sort of pull, as soon as the door closes and those couple of seconds are the worst. Because I know it’s coming. This...nothing’ness.”  
  
Emma tries to look away or breathe or do anything except stare at Killian and the look on his face, the longing and she can kind of see through him, but he looks just a bit more corporeal than he did the night before. “Have you been here the whole time?” she asks, voice cracking traitorously. “Since I moved in?”  
  
“I can’t really remember much before then, but my memories are, admittedly, a bit jumbled.”

She’s fairly positive he’s trying to make a joke on her behalf, but she’s still having a hard time ignoring the burning in her lungs from a distinct lack of oxygen, so maybe she’s really hallucinating that time.

“You’re not actually dead,” Emma says and his eyebrows jump. “That’s...that’s what Elsa said. Just a coma.”  
  
“Ah, just.”

Killian shifts slightly, tongue pressed into the corner of his lips and Emma’s eyes fall on his fingers when he moves. She’s not sure what she’s waiting for, but him touching her was probably somewhere at the very bottom of the list and she hisses in as much air as she possibly can as soon as his fingers brush over the back of her palm.

“Huh,” he says, sounding vaguely fascinated that his experiment worked. “Can you feel that?”  
  
Emma nods dumbly, the dull buzz just under her skin feeling like a live wire or several hundred sparks and her tongue feels far too big for her mouth. “Can you?’ she asks.

“Yeah. That’s the first thing I remember. Feeling that buzz. And then knocking the book over.”  
  
“I knew that was some kind of ghost test! Can you actually read that? God, that terrified me. That was a jerk move.”  
  
Killian flashes a grin at her, all quiet and ease and confidence and Emma’s heart beats so loudly she’s certain they’ll be able to hear it in the middle of the goddamn Atlantic Ocean. “Why were you going through my stuff, Swan?”

“Curiosity.”  
  
“Ah, of course,” he laughs, tracing a vein on her skin. He doesn’t stop moving for what feels like several hours and maybe it is, Emma’s phone ringing more than once. She ignores it.

They talk instead.

He tells her about the law practice and meeting Robin Locksley and how he gave two kids a chance to help him build something.

She tells him about moving to Portland and how nervous she was and what it’d mean to have all that support there all the time.

He hates the junk food she’s bought in the last week. She thinks his remote holder is the peak of stupidity. They both like cheesy 80’s movies.

They test out a few other things.

He can move things, but only when he’s really thinking about it. Otherwise he just kind of...passes through them and, truth be told, that freaks Emma out a little bit.

He has no idea why he’s in the apartment and not with his actual body in the hospital, but that’s a hurdle they’ll get to eventually.

He can’t actually eat anything, a fact he seems particularly disappointed by. He can, however, smell it and Emma makes chocolate-covered popcorn, ignoring his protests at the idea and beaming when he sighs as soon as the smell wafts across the apartment.

“Told you,” she mutters, making sure to rest her feet on the coffee table when she sits back down. Killian narrows his eyes and Emma smiles until it starts to get weird, that same feeling that he’s examining her again. “What?”

“How are you not running out the door right now?” Killian asks. “This is...this isn’t exactly normal, Swan.”

Emma shrugs, putting the bowl down and ignoring his quiet protests when there aren’t, at least, twenty towels underneath to preserve the wood finish. “I honestly have no idea,” she answers, working another nervous laugh out of him. She likes that sound. “This is insane. And I’m still not sure you’re not some figment of my imagination, but, I mean...this is your apartment and I am...curious.”  
  
It must not have been the explanation he was prepared for because the look on his face is somewhere between stunned and surprised and they both look pretty damn good on Killian Jones. “Huh,” he says again, leaning forward slightly and it’s probably good the popcorn is on the table because she would have dropped it when he kissed her.

She’s not one to brag, but Emma’s had her fair share of kisses. Good kisses and bad kisses and kisses that are the start of something and the end of something and none of them were quite like kissing Killian Jones.

Who isn’t really there to begin with.

He isn’t cold – he isn’t _dead_ – but he isn’t exactly warm either, lips pressing lightly against hers and it feels a bit like butterfly wings or what Emma imagines butterfly wings on her lips would feel like. She can feel the insistence behind his touch, that desperation she’s seen before sinking through and one of them must have made a noise because Emma can hear it, but this has been the strangest twenty-four hours of her entire life, so not much makes sense at this point.

Her whole body is tingling by the time he pulls away – or she pulls away, she’s not sure of that either – and she’s almost disappointed that nothing else has happened. His eyes almost look bluer though and there’s something that maybe, sort of looks like a flush to his cheeks, chest rising and falling quickly when he tries to catch his breath.

“Yeah, alright,” Killian says, like that settles that and there’s still a movie playing in the background and Emma doesn’t remember falling asleep on the couch, just waking up alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put this note at the beginning because this is a kind of warning for this chapter. If you're not comfortable reading about potential do not resuscitate orders or next of kin type-decisions, then this might not be the chapter for you. I'm me though, so if you've read anything I've ever written before, you know how I feel about happy endings. 
> 
> Feel free to come scream at me on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com

They almost kind of settle into some kind of routine.

It just kind of...is. Emma and her not-quite-ghost roommate.

And two months later it’s almost kind of sort of normal. It’s almost kind of sort of nice. He doesn’t kiss her again. She doesn’t think about that far more than she should.

He’s a goddamn ghost. Kind of.

She’s never been much for roommates, part of the reason she wanted to get off Ruby and Elsa’s couch in the first place, and Killian is, obviously, not much for some of her less appealing habits. He groans loudly whenever she doesn’t take her shoes off as soon as she comes into the apartment or when she leaves dishes stacked on the counter and he seems to have some personal vendetta against Pop-Tarts.

It’s not always easy, but they make it work.

He can’t really leave – mostly because when she leaves he seems to just disappear into nothing’ness and they both absolutely ignore that because, well, that’s kind of a problem. They don’t really talk about his _other_ state either, the one that, per Elsa is still unconscious with little sign of improvement, something flashing in her gaze when Emma just happens to bring up Killian. Again.

They, do however, try to figure out what happened. Or, rather, Emma does. Killian mostly just provides half answers and seems to find his shoes suddenly very interesting as soon as she asks about Back Cove or the motorcycle or Milah. She only mentions the name once and Killian’s eyes flashed so dark Emma actually takes a step back.

He doesn’t come back for two days.

He apologizes eventually, sitting on the corner of her bed in the guest room and nearly scaring her to death again, fingers back behind his ear and a cautious smile on his face.

“It’s late,” he says softly, like he doesn’t want to admit to clock watching, which is an impossibility since he only ever seems to show up when she’s there. “I was...I was worried.”  
  
She’s wearing a ridiculous dress – far too tight and far too red and her feet are throbbing from the heels she’s still has on – and Killian’s eyes widen slightly when he notices. He can’t actually change his clothes. He’s tried, at least, sixteen times and every time has just ended with frustrated growls and overly dramatic eye rolls and Emma laughs until her vision clouds just a bit and her stomach cramps slightly, but it’s kind of nice in a way she isn’t totally used to.

Or is starting to get used to.

Emma nods slowly, trying to will her heartbeat back to a normal level and steps out of her heels, sighing when her toes curl into the carpet under her feet. “Suspect had a penchant for very expensive whisky in shitty neighborhoods. It was almost too easy.”

“I’d imagine.”  
  
She knows her head moves again, because she can feel her hair shift against her shoulders and she opens her mouth to say something, but Killian is suddenly in front of her and, well, that’s new. “Oh,” Emma mutters, but she doesn’t actually move.

There’s a cut on her cheek – the sting of it just a bit duller a few hours removed from catching a backpack full of drugs with her face – and Killian’s eyes fall on it as soon as he’s in front of her, thumb brushing just above the spot where the blood dried.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, so softly she can barely hear him and it’s been two months, but sometimes she’s still convinced it’s a dream and two days is the longest they’ve gone without seeing each other since he showed up in the kitchen.

“I shouldn’t have pushed,” Emma argues. Killian’s shaking his head before she even finishes the sentence. “I just…”  
  
“I know, Swan. And I...well, I should have told you from the start.”  
  
“Told me what?”  
  
“It’s not exactly the kind of story you want to introduce yourself with to your new roommate.”  
  
“Is that what we are?”  
  
She’s never quite sure where that particular brand of curiosity comes from, but the question is out of her mouth before she can stop herself and Emma realizes, eventually, what the feeling in the pit of her stomach is. Hope.

Weird.

“I hope not,” Killian says and it sounds like an admission, particularly when his thumb is still moving over her cheek. He closes his eyes slightly and leans his head forward until it’s nearly resting on Emma and she doesn’t have to ask what he’s trying to do.

But actually using the words _he’s trying to breathe me in_ sound weird out loud.

He tells her eventually – the whole goddamn, depressing story. He tells her about meeting Milah and falling in love with Milah and realizing Milah was married. And they couldn’t ever leave because of the practice and his responsibilities, but they couldn’t really stop and they didn’t stop, not until there was an accident and she was gone and Killian found himself going to Back Cove every other day, only to feel something again.

“I’ve got absolutely no proof of anything,” he says, voice just a bit scratchy after talking for so long. “But you mentioned what your friend said and police investigations and Liam...well, he’s a stubborn asshole. He would have figured it out. He would have thought something was wrong.”  
  
“That’s why Scarlet wouldn’t tell me about you,” Emma adds. “He probably didn’t want the press or for me to notice the press. They...they haven’t found anything yet. I keep looking at _The Press-Herald_ and you haven’t been mentioned in weeks. I even tried asking some guy I knew at central booking if he’d heard anything, but I’m new, or new’ish, so he didn’t know and….what?”

She’s slightly stunned by the look on his face, a mix of surprise and incredulity and something that might be awe. “You asked a guy at central booking about me?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, but not you know not in a weird way. In like a...I heard a rumor and I’m passably interested, but definitely not living with that coma-guy kind of way.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s probably the best way to approach that situation.”  
  
“Is that...I mean, was that ok?”

Killian nods and the expression on his face hasn’t changed at all. “That’s nice. God, that’s an awful word. But, yeah, that’s ok.” He doesn’t blink when he looks at her. “I’m sorry. Again. For disappearing on you.”  
  
“You don’t have to do that. Not while I’m here. I don’t want you to just be…” She cuts herself off, not able to actual use the word nothing because it’s so much the opposite of everything Killian is, but she can’t come up with a better word either and this is an unqualified disaster.

“I mean, I’d rather not either, love.”

She chuckles slightly at that, suddenly disappointed she can’t burrow against his side or feel his arm around her waist as anything more than a passing touch. It must show on her face because the next thing she knows Killian is moving, shifting against the top of her blankets and against her pillows and the smile has a nervous edge when they both realize he’s offering up his left arm.

“Humor me,” he says, like they’re running another experiment and her heart isn’t about to beat out of her chest.

Emma licks her lips and, hopefully, nods again, sliding down as well until the blankets are more a twisted mess underneath them than any sort of comfort. He moves his arm and it lands on her waist with almost audible thump, both of them gasping at the sound.

It’s still not quite totally real, but it’s heavier than it’s been before and it’s absolutely warm and comforting and Emma moves her hand, letting it drift just a few inches above his chest. She bites her lip when it lands on something solid.

She gets bolder from there, trailing the tips of her fingers across buttons and the tie he still can’t take off and the fabric doesn’t feel entirely right, but it doesn’t feel like the sandpaper she expected it to.

She keeps moving, tracing over lines that aren’t really there, vaguely fascinated by the steady rise and fall of Killian’s chest when his eyes flutter shut again. His breath hitches when she twists and she can actually feel scar tissue at the end of his arm, like it’s only just appeared there.  
  
“Emma,” Killian murmurs and she tries to swallow down the wad of emotion suddenly sitting in the back of her throat.

“How?” she asks.

He doesn’t open his eyes when he answers, but he almost looks relaxed when she keeps moving her fingers and his arm never actually leaves her waist. “I think...I think that happened in the accident. I remember that. There were lights and sirens and, God, there was so much noise, but all I could think about was how much everything hurt.” He laughs softly, but it’s that same disappointment and frustration Emma felt for the last two days.

“I think...” he continues, turning his head to look at her and it’s probably good they’re laying down because Emma isn't sure she would have been able to keep her knees locked when he stares at her like that. His eyes are nearly as blue as the picture hanging in the hallway. “That’s where I go.”  
  
“What?” Emma mumbles, blinking in confusion and exhaustion and she’s certain she can feel him everywhere. That is, absolutely, impossible.

“My actual body. The nothing. I think it’s being in the coma. Or modern medicine or whatever.”  
  
She’s not sure how to respond, mouth hanging open slightly and mind racing as it tries to piece together all of this. She only had one glass of expensive whisky, but Emma suddenly feels as if she’s been on a two-day bender.

Killian, however, is not done theorizing.

“But I think that’s changing,” he says. “Or, at least becoming a bit more aware. That’s how I’m starting to remember some things.”  
  
“How do you figure?”  
  
“I could almost hear you still. Or, well, feel sounds wrong, but that’s kind of what it was too. I knew you were here and I wanted to come back. I just...couldn’t.”  
  
“You couldn’t,” Emma repeats, something akin to abject terror shooting down her spine. Killian presses his lips together tightly and shakes his head. “Well, that’s concerning.”  
  
“I’m not disagreeing with you, love.”  
  
“When did you start to remember? Or have you known about the accident the whole time?”  
  
“No, no, that’s also new. I think that’s from being stuck, so to speak.”  
  
“Stuck in your own body?”  
  
“If I could come up with better words, Swan, I would.”  
  
“That’s reasonable,” she mumbles, half into the pillow and half into his shoulder and neither one of them mention how he can feel her. She’s suddenly exhausted and it must be nearly four in the morning and all she wants to do is fall asleep. “Hey, uh, you’re not going to disappear again tonight, are you? Because this whole thing has kind of sucked.”  
  
“This whole thing has absolutely sucked,” Killian agrees, tightening his arm a fraction of an inch and Emma realizes she doesn’t care about the physics of it or the reasoning behind it or why it’s, suddenly, different. She’s just glad he’s back. “And I’m not going anywhere, love, I promise.”

He doesn’t.

And he’s there when she wakes up, half-smiling at her with his arm still wrapped around her waist.

She’s discovered that he really, really likes the smell of coffee – but absolutely _hates_ the smell of the creamer she’s been using since she started making her own coffee when she turned sixteen. And that sparks a brand-new round of questions.

“You must be really good at cross-examination,” Emma muses, hopping onto the counter and swinging her legs out. Killian glowers at her. “I’m just saying. This is almost impressive.”  
  
“I’m just saying sixteen seems awfully early to be drinking coffee, Swan. And you don’t have to actually answer the questions, you’re a bit of an open book, love.”  
  
She widens her eyes, staring at him speculatively, but he doesn’t waver or even blink, just keeps smirking at her and everything feels as if it’s shifted between them.

“Oh, yeah?” Emma asks. “What am I thinking now?”  
  
“I didn’t claim to read minds, Swan. I just said that I’m very good at knowing when you’re thinking something.”  
  
“Awfully confident in those abilities, huh?”  
  
“I’ve had some time to observe.” She feels a rush of guilt at that – but she had some time to think between waking up and finding him there this morning and getting out of the shower and maybe she’s got part of a plan. Killian takes a step toward her, resting his right hand on her knee, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “You’ve got to tell me what you're thinking,” he sighs, hair falling across his face when he droops towards her.

“I have an idea,” Emma says, treading lightly. Killian hums in response, but doesn’t actually say anything and she resists the urge to make some kind of lawyer joke. “Now, don’t say no before I explain. I think, well, I think we should bring in Mary Margaret.”  
  
“Is that supposed to mean something?”  
  
“You know Mary Margaret. Or know of Mary Margaret.”  
  
She’d told him a week before the disappearing incident – back home after spending the night at Mary Margaret and David’s apartment and her eyes were the wrong side of glossy by the end of it, explaining how she’d met them at school and they’d more or less adopted her, which was a strange phrase since no one else ever wanted to.

And he’d listened and brushed his fingers under her eyes when the tears actually started to fall and promised she deserved to have people in her corner now.

“I do know of Mary Margaret,” Killian agrees, tapping his thumb against her knee. “What I don’t know is why Mary Margaret needs to be brought in.”  
  
“Well, things are...changing. With you. And you could feel me last night and you’re remembering things and I think it’s time to test that.”  
  
Killian widens his eyes, but there’s amusement there and maybe a bit of curiosity as well. “You want to see if she can see me too. Should I be offended you’re trying to share me, Swan?”

“This is an experiment,” she says, rolling her eyes for emphasis and his smile widens until she’s sure she can feel that too.

“And we’re choosing Mary Margaret because…”  
  
“Because she’s Mary Margaret. And she won’t freak out.”

Killian considers that for a moment, twisting his lips slightly and he nods once. “Yeah, ok, let’s experiment.”

Emma realizes, as soon as they’re standing in front of the front door, that she hasn’t been entirely fair to Mary Margaret. Because she hasn’t really told Mary Margaret anything – just that she needs a favor and maybe she can bring some hot chocolate and if Mary Margaret thinks that's odd for June, she, thankfully, doesn’t say anything.

“Ok,” Emma starts, twisting her key in the lock. “I need you not to freak out. Like you absolutely cannot freak out because I don’t know what’s going to happen if you do.”  
  
Mary Margaret eyes her speculatively, but she doesn’t actually argue, just steps into the living room with wide eyes like she’s waiting for a surprise party or something.

“Killian,” Emma calls and Mary Margaret’s eyes, somehow, get even wider. “Hey, uh, we’re home.”

He’s next to the very next moment, barely any space between them and that slightly sarcastic, vaguely teasing look she’s just, at some point, started considering hers on his face. That’s probably not healthy. “Did you bring me hot chocolate, Swan?” Killian asks, fingers trailing absent-mindedly against her hip.

“Mary Margaret made it. But it was my idea, so I’m going to take some credit for it.”  
  
“Ah, yeah, that makes sense. Smells good.”  
  
“Emma,” Mary Margaret says slowly, holding both hands up like she’s dealing with a crazy person. “What...what is going on?”

Killian sighs and Emma can’t quite mask her frustration, Mary Margaret gaping at her when she takes in the look on her face. “Well, damn,” Emma mutters. “You really can’t see anything?”

“Should I?”

“I don’t know. That was part of the experiment.”

Mary Margaret tilts her head, staring at Emma’s hand when it shifts. “Are you...are you touching something?”  
  
Killian laughs – loudly, now that he knows Mary Margaret can’t see him or hear him – and Emma glares at him, ignoring whatever is going on with Mary Margaret’s entire body. “Shut up,” she hisses, but that only makes him laugh louder. “So, uh, M’s, remember when I said not to freak out?” Mary Margaret nods, but she still looks a little stunned and her eyes haven’t moved away from Emma’s hand. “This is the part where you don’t freak out.”  
  
“What is going on?”  
  
Emma tells her the whole story. The book and the kitchen and how she thought she was going insane, but Killian’s not dead and Mary Margaret listens to the whole thing, nodding occasionally. She doesn’t say anything when Emma stops, just keeps glancing around the room like she expects Killian to suddenly appear.

He’s already there.

She can’t see him.

“Mary Margaret,” Emma starts, suddenly nervous her best friend is suffering some kind of breakdown on her couch. “Are you ok?”  
  
“Have you gone?” Mary Margaret asks.

“What?”  
  
“To, well, see him. In real life, at least. Have you actually seen him in person?”

Emma shakes her head, glancing at Killian. He shrugs. “I just figured I couldn’t leave the apartment.”

“Is he talking?” Mary Margaret whispers, like speaking too loudly will disturb the spirits or something.

Emma nods, still looking at Killian. “Yeah, I feel like we should throw flour at you or something so Mary Margaret knows where you're standing.”  
  
“I’m not sure that’ll work, love,” he mumbles and she knows he just doesn’t want flour thrown in his face. “Do you think that would work?”  
  
“Going outside?” He shrugs, but there’s a hint of hope there as well. “I mean, I don’t know. I figured you couldn’t leave either, but if you can feel things from the hospital then…”  
  
“Wait, wait, wait,” Mary Margaret interrupts. “What does Killian do when you’re not here, Emma?”

Emma smiles when she uses his actual name. This was a good idea. “He, uh, just kind of disappears back into his body?”  
  
“That was a question.”  
  
“I mean I’m not the one in the coma, so I can’t really explain it.”  
  
Mary Margaret hums in understanding, but the gears are still working and there’s half a plan already. “I think you should go,” she says again, using _that_ voice she always saves for when she’s trying to get Emma to believe in something. “Soon.”  
  
“You sound very sure.”  
  
“I mean, this is absolutely insane, so I’m not sure of anything at all, but there’s got to be a reason this is happening. And there has to be a reason you can see him.”  
  
“She’s got a point, Swan,” Killian mutters, brushing his fingers over the back of her neck and she tries not to stutter over the feel of it. That doesn’t work either. “We might as well see if I can even leave the apartment.”  
  
“What did he say?” Mary Margaret asks, excitement obvious in every single letter. Emma sighs – and Mary Margaret deflates slightly.

“It could work, Swan,” Killian says and it sounds like a promise. Or, at least, the promise of hope. “I can’t just stay inside forever.”  
  
Emma wants to argue, wants to point out all the things they don’t know and, likely, can’t control, and what might go wrong if he’s supposed to be in the apartment at all times in some kind of mythical way that would explain any of this, but she doesn’t.

She doesn’t say anything.

She just hopes.

“Ok,” Emma says and Mary Margaret actually squeaks on the couch. She stays for two more hours and tries to stage a conversation with Killian through Emma until the hot chocolate goes cold.

They don’t go.

And it’s not for lack of trying. Really. It’s not.

Emma does, after all, have a job and, she reasons, they should test out distance before they venture to the hospital. But suddenly, it’s late August and they’ve spent so much time experimenting and testing and exploring together and they’re not closer to the hospital than they were the day Emma moved into the apartment.

Instead, they spend entire afternoons in the green space behind the building, talking and sharing and laughing, and, in one moment of absolute terror, they realize Emma can actually see Killian start to disappear if he’s more than a dozen yards away from her.

She’s never run so fast in her entire life.

He’s pale, on his knees with his fingers pushed into the ground like he’s trying to hold himself there, and he doesn’t look up immediately when Emma drops in front of him. “God, don’t do that again,” Emma chastises and Killian snorts softly, closing his eyes until his breathing evens out.

“Noted, love.”

They go to the coffee shop at the end of the block and Emma puts a company-provided bluetooth she’s never actually used in the field in her ear and mutters under her breath so people don’t stare and for all his talk about junk food, Emma is quick to point out that Killian’s eyes nearly roll back in his head when he smells french fries on a Wednesday in July.

Her friends ask questions – why she’s quick to brush off invitations to go out on Saturday or why she can’t make lunch on a day they know she’s not working. Mary Margaret helps, pointing out Emma’s _shit sleep schedule_ and the curse is more than enough to shut up her friends for awhile, despite the knowing glance Elsa shoots her direction.

She and Killian work their way through John Hughe’s entire resume. He makes fun of her music choices on Saturday morning – _these are classics, Killian, ask anyone_ – but she finds him humming along one day and refuses to let it drop for the next week.

He knocks a row of books off a shelf when she gets home from work in retaliation.

It’s good. It’s getting better. It’s almost, sort of like being in a relationship – might be Emma’s best relationship, honestly, and that’s not troubling at all – especially when neither one of them can seem to stop touching each other and there’s more kissing seemingly every day.

Killian hasn’t been stuck anywhere in months and neither one of them really forgets what Mary Margaret said, but they don’t talk about it either, far too nervous of disturbing this strange equilibrium they’ve landed in.

So, naturally, it ends.

It’s a Sunday, early, and Emma can hear the rain pounding on the window outside and, eventually, she’ll probably assume that’s a sign. “That’s your phone, love,” Killian mumbles, but not because he’s frustrated at being woken up.

He doesn’t really sleep.

Emma blinks blearily, that haze that comes from sleep and comfort and happiness, lingering just on the edges of her consciousness even through the rain and the look on Killian’s face. “What’s the matter?” she asks, not sure she wants the answer.

Her phone is still ringing.

“I think we waited too long, Emma.”  
  
It’s like she’s been thrown into frozen water, something shooting through her veins that feels a bit like dread and eerily similar to knives cutting across every inch of her body. Her phone stops ringing – only to start again, immediately, and Emma leaps out of bed to find Will Scarlet’s name flashing on the screen.

She takes a deep breath before she answers. It feels kind of pointless. “Hello?”

“Hi, Emma,” he says and Scarlet’s voice is scratchy on the other end, like he’s been awake for, possibly, years. Emma wonders if he’s getting any sleep. It doesn’t sound like it. “I’m uh...I’m sorry to be calling so early, but uh...I have some bad news.”  
  
“Yeah?” Scarlet hums and Killian looks like a statue in the middle of the bed, legs stretched out long in front of him and there’s not much left of his shoulder. “Holy shit,” Emma mumbles, but Scarlet hears and asks and she can’t quite think when her mind is several blocks away in a hospital room she’s ignored for the last five months.

It’s only been five months.

“Yeah,” Scarlet repeats. “Um, well….my client, he’s decided to expedite the process a little bit. There’s um…” He swallows audibly and Emma glances at Killian, taking a step toward him until her hand lands on his leg.

She can’t feel anything.

“What are you saying, Will?” Emma snaps, dimly aware that her tone doesn’t make much sense in a world where she’s not living with the not-quite-ghost of his not-quite-dead partner. She’s had her suspicions about what exactly Killian _is_ , but Emma’s ignored those too and she already knows the answer to her question.

“I’m going to need you to be out of the apartment in the next week.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“It’s...I know it’s sudden, but my client’s made a decision and he wants to get the apartment on the market and…”  
  
“Why doesn’t he think Killian is going to be fine?” Emma asks and there’s a soft crash when Will drops his phone. She glances up and, maybe, Killian smiles, but he looks pale again and she can’t really see through the tears in her eyes.

“How do you…” Will starts, but she just interrupts again.

“It doesn’t matter. I know and I’ve known for months and you can’t...he’s got another month. You said six months, Will!”

“There’s been no change for weeks, Emma,” he answers, barely getting the words out. “He’s just...there. And there’s...the doctors say there probably won’t be any change. Liam, well…”  
  
“No.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“No, you can’t do that. Tell Liam he can’t do that.”  
  
Will makes a noise that might be disbelief or just generic surprise and Emma’s hand tightens around Killian’s leg, like she’s trying to keep him there. With her. Indefinitely. “That’s not really your decision, Emma,” Scarlet says. “And by not really, I mean it’s absolutely not your decision.”

There was a finality in his voice that made Emma’s heart stutter and the bed dipped when she sank onto the edge.

“A week, Emma,” Scarlet repeats. “This is... it’s finished. Liam’s going to be here this afternoon.”

She hangs up on him.

And it’s petty and immature and not even remotely productive when Killian is visibly fading just a few inches away from her, but Emma isn’t sure what else to do. “Emma,” Killian says and she shakes her head forcefully, the rush of whatever she feels whenever he actually uses her name dissipating as soon as it appears.

“No,” she argues, practically snarling out the word. “No, we’re not...we should have done this before. We were so scared of what might happen if we went into the hospital room and now your brother just thinks you’re going to...no. I won’t let it happen.”

He smiles at her, soft and easy and _hers_ and she’s still not sure what she’s going to do, just positive she has to do something. “You have to go, Swan,” Killian says softly, lifting his hand until his palm rests on her cheek.

She can’t feel it. There’s...nothing there.

“Alright, let’s go,” Emma says, standing up, but Killian doesn’t move. She can barely even see him. “No, no, come on, you can’t...not now. That’s bullshit.”  
  
Killian chuckles slightly, the smile still on his face and he blinks once – like he’s trying to will himself back into existence or something. It kind of works, she can almost feel his fingers on her skin and there’s a dull buzz in the back of her mind, like a machine whirring to life.

“You’re absolutely impossible, you know that,” he mutters and Emma nods, wrapping her hand around his forearm.

“Yeah, I know. You want to go, like, save your soul or something, though?”

“Sure.”

She keeps her hand wrapped up in his the entire way to the hospital, her phone pressed up against her ear with her shoulder and mind still moving, approximately, eight hundred miles a minute. Her mind is, basically, somewhere in North Carolina.

“Em, I can’t really talk right now,” Elsa says when she answers the phone and Emma resists the urge to just start screaming or possibly crying in the middle of the sidewalk.

“You don’t have to talk,” she promises. “I just need you to get me into a room.”  
  
There’s a pause and Emma knows Elsa is blinking, trying to process the words she all but just shouted into the phone. “Is this about that coma guy?” Elsa asks and Emma hums noncommittally. “Em, he’s…”  
  
“I know, I know, but this is important, Elsa. I promise. This is, honestly, life and death.”  
  
“What do you know?”  
  
“Ok, so, uh, I wasn’t hallucinating. And Mary Margaret’s been covering for me for months.”  
  
“Covering for you, how? Oh my God, Em, are you...maybe we should get you a psych eval or something.”  
  
Emma can’t quite contain her groan, rolling her eyes when the automatic doors of the hospital spring open in front of them and a nurse eyes her suspiciously when she notices her arm’s slightly awkward angle. Killian squeezes her hand. Or at least tries.

Elsa’s still going on about the benefits of talking to someone and how quick it’ll all be, but Emma can almost feel the adrenaline moving through her system and she doesn’t have time for anything that isn’t absolutely saving Killian’s goddamn soul.

“Elsa, if you get me into Killian’s hospital room right now, then I will take every evaluation you can find,” she says. “I will be your own personal test subject.”

Another pause and a deep breath and slightly dramatic sigh, but Emma knows she’s won before Elsa even answers. “I mean, that’s kind of extreme, but I get your point. Alright, I’ll be right there.”

Elsa’s cheeks are red when she jogs into the doorway Emma’s just taken over as her own, glancing at her like she’s just waiting to dissolve into some kind of _episode._ “Is he here?” she asks. “Your ghost guy?”  
  
“He’s not a ghost,” Emma counters. “We’re just trying to get different pieces of him back together before his brother does something stupid.”  
  
“Yeah, I heard about that. Alright, uh, just follow me closely and don’t let the ghost do anything particularly spooky.”

“You hear that?” Emma asks, Elsa’s eyes widening when she appears to start talking to empty space.

Killian nods.  “Loud and clear, love.”

Emma counts her steps – maybe she should take some kind of evaluation – but it’s almost calming in a metronome sort of way and it takes two-hundred and seventy-two steps before Elsa is swiping her key card and a door swings open and there are so many machines and wires and...Killian.

He’s standing next to her still, fingers light when they brush against her wrist, but he’s also lying in the bed in front of her, eyes closed and breathing easy and that probably has something to do with the mask on his face and the tube she can see in his throat.

“Oh my God,” Emma breathes before she can stop herself and Elsa shoots her a sympathetic glance. “Killian, I…”

He licks his lips, twisting his mouth and his eyes haven’t left his body and she can only imagine what _that_ feels like. He looks like he’s moving in slow motion and he’s kind of...sheer around the edges, like he’s fading or shimmering and neither one of those make any sense, but Emma can’t stop staring at him and Elsa doesn’t seem to be breathing.

Killian takes a step forward, hand ghosting just over the end of the bed where there are more machines and wires and things that beep obnoxiously.

It’s almost like being in a trance and Emma’s not sure who’s more hypnotized, her or Killian – until he sways slightly and everything seems to go dim and she’s moving before she considers the repercussions of it, yelling his name and reaching forward to grab the back of his shirt.

She can’t.

Her hand goes right through him.

“Emma,” Elsa warns, glancing down the hallway and there are footsteps and voices and the machines in front of them seem to, somehow, get louder.

“No,” Emma sighs and she wishes she could come up with another word. She wishes she weren’t so selfish or he wasn’t so selfish or they’d done this weeks ago. She’s glad they didn’t.

She’s glad for every single moment.

The voices are getting louder and Emma can dimly make out Scarlet and a deeper sound that almost reminds her of Killian. It makes her heart clench.

“Killian,” she says again and his shoulder twitches at that, some kind of victory that still, somehow, feels like defeat. “Killian can you...will this work?”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, shrugging slightly and glancing at her over his shoulder. “I have no idea, love. It feels like it. Like I’m being pulled or something.”

“That’s not a ton of help.”  
  
“Yeah, I realize that.”

She lets out a watery laugh, Elsa’s stare is heavy on the side of her head and Emma doesn’t even have to open her mouth before her friend is nodding. “Yeah,” Elsa says, agreeing to a plan Emma doesn’t even have. “This is...I mean this is nuts, but yeah, ok.”  
  
She’s a blur of scrubs and stethoscope half a breath later and Emma is alone with two Killian’s and the hope that maybe, eventually, they’ll be one person who’ll, somehow, manage to remember her.

“We should have done this before,” Emma whispers, not meaning a single letter.

“No, we shouldn’t have,” Killian argues. He turns on the spot, staring at her like she’s the electricity powering all those noisy machines and Emma can feel the tears on her cheeks even before he tries to brush them off. It doesn’t work.

“I’m...I’m so sorry, Killian,” Emma mumbles. She doesn’t know what else to say. She’s positive this will work. He’s already half gone anyway. She can barely make out the blue in his eyes.

“Don’t be, love. This is....you’ve been…” He sighs, licking his lips again and she’s not quite prepared for the intensity in his gaze. “We’ve already had far more time than we were supposed to, Swan. I wouldn’t change that.”  
  
“You were in a coma.”  
  
“Ah, well, maybe I’d change that,” he laughs softly and every single one of her muscles clenches at the sound. “But nothing else. Not a moment. I don’t understand how this happened, and, uh, it’s not exactly the afterlife I figured I’d end up with, but I am...so grateful for every single second, Emma.”

The voices are still talking, getting closer every moment and Elsa’s babbling about surgery options and surgery ideas and, _well, maybe if we did this or tried that,_ and Emma can’t breathe.

It’s over.

She feels like she’s been robbed and kicked and then thrown back in the ice water for good measure and all of those things would be less painful than watching Killian disappear...into himself.

“Emma,” he says, a strangled sound that’s barely a noise at all. “I…”  
  
He’s hardly there anymore, some kind of wisp in front of her and it’s like a breeze against her skin when he leans forward, breathing her in, again, and Emma sighs when she feels the brush of his lips against hers.

“I love you,” she whispers and she thinks he smiles. She hopes he smiles. He’s not there.

Emma blinks and, suddenly, she’s in a hospital room with only one Killian, machines still beeping and voices still talking in the hallway and she can’t make out anything, can barely catch her breath when a sob rips across her and her hand falls on the edge of the bed as she tries to steady herself.

The machine makes another noise and Elsa suddenly stops talking in the hallway.

Emma takes a deep breath, brushing her thumb over the back of Killian’s arm and the machine might actually explode. “Killian,” she whispers, that hope flaring back to life in the back corner of her brain. “Killian, can you hear me?”  
  
He can’t. She knows he can’t. He’s in a goddamn coma and his brother is in the hallway and decisions have already been made.

He can’t hear her.

It’s over.

But she’s spent too much time with Mary Margaret and she’s found a family and they’ve been calling that apartment home for months and Emma is moving quickly and immediately.

There’s more stubble on his jaw than she’s used to, hair a matted mess against his forehead and the lack of a tie is almost jarring, but she can still make out the softness in his face – the same he had when Emma just woke up or he caught her singing along to 70s pop music or quoting movies under her breath.

He’s still him.

“Here goes nothing,” Emma mutters, brushing her thumb across his cheek and pressing her lips to his.

She’s certain she’s, finally, lost it.

There’s a goddamn, fucking rainbow shooting around the entire hospital room.

Emma stumbles back quickly, eyes wide and adrenaline back in full force and the machines go haywire, seemingly able to deal with sudden rainbows as well as Emma is. She can feel her pulse racing in her veins, heat flooding her system and the electricity is definitely lingering in her limbs, humming in the curve of her elbow and the bend of her knees when she can’t quite stand upright anymore.  

“What the hell?” she asks and it almost makes sense that she’s come full circle because she’s talking to herself again and questioning things that, likely, don’t have answers.

Until, suddenly, there’s a new noise in the room.

It’s not an actual word, or even more than a quiet grunt, but Emma’s head snaps towards it anyway, lungs shrinking and heart expanding and it must be, at least, a million degrees in this hospital room.

Killian’s eyelids flutter and the voices are yelling, Elsa pleading with them to _just wait one more moment,_ but it doesn’t work and Scarlet shouts Emma’s name when he walks into the room.

She doesn’t move.

And Killian’s eyes are even more blue than they were in the picture.

There’s more shouting and screaming and Scarlet keeps asking Emma what she’s doing there, but suddenly Liam is there too, in full uniform like he’s trying to prove a point. It’s difficult to make, however, as soon as he sees his brother in a hospital bed and awake and Emma’s out of place and exactly where she belongs all at once.

She leaves.

She goes to Mary Margaret’s and cries. For hours. Until the hot chocolate goes cold.

She moves her stuff out of Killian’s apartment the very next day and David buys _her_ friendship bribery pizza, but she barely eats anything.

She knows her friends are talking, knows there are whispers and Elsa is seriously considering psych evaluations again, but Emma just keeps going through the motions of her days – there’s work and coffee and scouring _The Press-Herald_ for apartment listings.

Or, maybe, possibly for a story about hotshot Portland lawyer Killian Jones’ miraculous recovery and return to court.

Emma refuses to admit to that last one. It doesn’t matter. Her friends know that too. And Mary Margaret makes hot chocolate every night.

It’s months later and, she’s fine, really, Emma is good and ok and every other adjective she can think of – almost able to afford her own place, which is good because she knows Mary Margaret and David want to start trying to have kids and, well, she’s fairly certain she’ll commit herself if she has to be on the couch for any of that.

She’s at work, feet up on her desk and thumb scrolling down her phone when the door opens, a bell Emma considers just a little tacky announcing a brand-new customer. And that doesn’t make any sense either – they don’t have customers.

They have contracts and deals with the Portland police department and a few DA’s under the table because that’s, technically, not legal.

“Can I help you?” Emma asks, not bothering to look up. That’s her first mistake.

Part of her knows.

Part of her probably realizes as soon as that stupid bell sounded.

The rest of her wants to ignore the possibility completely.

“Yeah,” a voice says and her whole body freezes. Emma looks up slowly, legs protesting when she twists the wrong way and she still doesn’t move. “I was hoping you could help me find someone. Maybe. Quietly.”  
  
He’s still absurdly attractive – a different tie and a different shirt and she can’t actually see his shoes because her legs are still stuck awkwardly on her desk, but his pants fit ridiculously well and she’s staring as soon as her brain catches up with her eyeline.

Killian quirks an eyebrow, and that is cheating, the universe is _stupid_ and Emma finds herself already considering how much hot chocolate one human being can consume in a twenty-four hour period. “Are you alright, Ms….” he trails off and Emma nods slowly.

There it is. He doesn’t remember.

Seriously, _fuck off,_ universe.

“Swan,” she answers. “Emma Swan.”

She swears she can see something flicker on the edge of his gaze, but it’s gone as soon as it’s arrived and she’s a goddamn professional she can do this. “So,” Emma continues, finally swinging her feet back onto the floor. “You, uh, you need help finding someone? That’s not normally how we do things here. You’re...you’re a lawyer aren’t you? Not PMDP?”  
  
“No, no, I’m not a cop,” Killian says quickly, snapping his head up when he realizes what she said. “How did you know I’m a lawyer?”  
  
Emma flushes – and he really doesn’t know. He has no idea who she is. “I’ve seen your picture in the paper,” she mumbles, the worst excuse she can think of. “Congrats on, you know, being alive and all that.”

“Right,” he laughs, flashing a smile at her and she digs her heels into the ground so she doesn’t just leap at him. That probably wouldn’t be very professional. And she needs this job.

They fall into silence, awkward and anxious and practically deafening and Emma nearly groans when Killian’s hand works its way into his hair. “So, uh,” she continues. “You’re looking for someone? But secretly?”  
  
“You make it sound deceptive.”  
  
“Is it not?”  
  
“Not if we do it the right way.”  
  
“And that is?”  
  
“Quietly,” Killian repeats. “I’m, well, if you’ve been reading the paper, then you’ll know about the accident and…” He shrugs his left shoulder, arm still in a sling and there still isn’t anything at the end of his arm. Emma’s whole body hurts. “My partner and I are fairly certain there’s more to it than what the police are able to do. I can...well, let’s just say I can remember someone and I’d like to find him. See if that makes a difference.”

“You remember that?” she asks and Killian tilts his head at the note of accusation in her voice.  
  
“Should I not?”

Her eyes widen and she shakes her head so quickly she’s nervous she’s done permanent damage to her brain. “I don’t...I have no idea about that. Or you. Right?”  
  
“Are you looking for confirmation on that?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Alright,” he says slowly, pressing his tongue into the corner of his lip and it’s as distracting as it was when he was a ghost or not quite a ghost and he rolls his shoulder uncomfortably when she doesn’t say anything else. “So, do you think you can help, Ms. Swan? My partner seemed fairly certain you were the one for the job.”  
  
“Scarlet said that?”  
  
Killian blinks and that look is back and the room is spinning, but Emma’s still sitting down. “You know Will?” Killian asks, voice gruff like he’s trying to remember something he doesn’t realize he’s forgotten. “How?”  
  
“The paper.”  
  
“You’re an awful liar.”  
  
“That’s not true at all.”  
  
“That’s my job, Swan. Don’t insult my intelligence like that.”

She’s never been struck by lightning, so Emma can’t actually say that’s what it feels like to hear him call her that, but she’s willing to pull a few strings on metaphor explanations and she’s positive the universe just _owes_ her at this point. She’s standing before she even thinks about it, leaning over the front of her desk with one hand flat on imitation wood and the other lands on his arm out of practice and instinct and enough goddamn want that it could probably spark several lightning-based metaphors all on its own.

And it happens quickly – again, every single one of these moments over before she can blink, which seems kind of unfair, really, but Emma can’t find it in herself to argue when she does blink and finds herself face to face with a Killian Jones who, very clearly, remembers her.

He opens his mouth only to close it again and exhale loudly enough that his whole body falls towards her, barely managing to get out a slightly strangled _Swan_ before he’s kissing her and it’s not easy when there’s a desk in between them, but they make it work and neither one of them can seem to stop moving their hands.

It’s like being thrown into a brand-new gear when she’s been stuck in neutral for weeks, surging forward and falling back against him as soon as she pulls enough oxygen back into her lungs to make sure she doesn’t pass out.

His hand moves everywhere and not, all at the same time, tracing over her back and into her hair, sure and confident and it’s more than it was before because _they’re_ more than they were before and that’s easily the most sentimental thing Emma’s ever thought in her entire life.

“How?” Emma mumbles, not entirely willing to move away from his mouth and Killian laughs against her, fingers carding through her hair when he rests his forehead against hers. “How are you...how do you remember? Do you remember?”  
  
“Emma,” Killian sighs, but there’s no frustration there. There’s just something akin to joy and it shoots through her like the goddamn sun appearing in the sky. Ah, that might be the most sentimental thing she’s ever thought. “Yes,” he says, laughing again when she just starts attack kissing his entire face. “Swan, Emma, love, yeah, I remember.”  
  
“You covered the nickname spectrum there,” she says and the desk is pushing uncomfortably into her stomach or possibly her spleen, but she’d fight all the office furniture if it meant she got to keep touching him.

He was really there.

And he remembered.

“How do you remember?” Emma asks and she’s losing her grip on the situation. “You didn’t...you didn’t when you walked in? God, how are you even awake?”

“Did you not see the rainbow, Swan?”

That catches her short. She’s convinced herself she imagined the rainbow. “Did you?” Emma challenges and Killian kisses her again before he answers. Or, well, before she just keeps talking. “God, Mary Margaret was right.”  
  
“Mary Margaret knew about the rainbow?”  
  
“No, no, but something about how true love conquers all or whatever. That’s like..her thing.”  
  
“Romantic.”  
  
“Yeah, exactly that,” Emma says and there’s more kissing and more touching and she’s basically laying across the desk now. “I don’t...I don’t care, it doesn’t matter. The rainbows and the magic and I don’t care. I’m just so glad you’re here.”  
  
Killian beams at her, moving his thumb back to her cheek and tracing across the curve of her jaw and it’s as if everything settles and there’s no rainbow when they kiss that time, but it doesn’t really matter – not when he’s back and she’s there and it’s like taking a deep breath for the first time in years.

“I love you,” he whispers, muttering the words in her ear and the entire world shifts or recenters or something equally impossible, but that word seem to have lost all its meaning at this point. “I didn’t get to that part before.”  
  
They’re still making out – although they’ve at least moved so Killian’s sitting on the desk – when Regina gets back later that afternoon.

* * *

They do find that guy – and it only takes Emma a few weeks because she’s goddam good at her job and Killian beams at her again. And he was right, there was a plan and the accident wasn’t an accident and she recognizes the name immediately.

Felix Rufio.

A skip who’d run out on her in Boston.

And it doesn’t really make any sense, but, well, that’s the theme and they get him and the police talk to him and Mary Margaret mumbles something about fate and unfinished business that, once upon a time, Emma would have ignored.

She can’t anymore.

Not when Mary Margaret all but launches herself at Killian as soon as she, finally, sees him.

And not when Emma moves her clothes back into Killian’s apartment a few weeks later and curls into his chest in the bed of a room she, technically, wasn’t ever supposed to go into.

He reads the book – translating as he goes and Emma makes some kind of quip about _questionably high intelligence,_ but Killian just smiles, pressing kisses against the top of her head and her fingers trail across his arm until she feels him feel asleep against her.

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly had this idea at two in the morning and, literally, wrote this entire thing in one day. So if it doesn't make sense or there are obvious mistakes, I apologize, because it just had to exist and it's very clearly not beta'd. This is a not-quite "Just Like Heaven" AU because I'm fairly positive (spoilers) they don't get together at the end? I don't know, I can't remember and I totally didn't watch the movie before I just started writing things. 
> 
> Title also from "Boston" by Augustana because my musical taste hasn't changed since 2006. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


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